


Rewrite

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John spends some time alone with his thoughts.  And his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewrite

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by John's remarks about the boredom he began feeling during the third season of _Flying Circus_.
> 
> This fic contains a brief mention of m/f sex in the form of fantasy.

Connie isn't home, dammit. He knows it as soon as he pulls into the driveway. Her car's nowhere to be seen. He rolls to a stop, tyres crunching on the gravel, and sits for a moment, letting the engine idle, tapping the fingers of his right hand impatiently on the steering wheel. Damn.

He switches the engine off at last and unfolds himself from the cramped front seat. He walks toward the house, bouncing the keys absently in his hand, frowning with annoyance. He unlocks the door and enters, and there's no sign of her, no faint whiff of perfume, no pleasant aroma of tea from the kitchen. He's alone. And he's been so looking forward to a little bit of...

He sighs, dropping his coat across the back of the sofa. His fault, really. He hadn't rung to tell her when he was coming home, much less that he was feeling -- amorous. No doubt that was his fault too. He'd picked up a startlingly naughty magazine at the newsagent's that morning, and had spent some time reading it -- well, perhaps "reading" wasn't _quite_ the right word -- during lunch at Michael's house. He works hard at those read-throughs -- usually, anyway -- and if he wants a bit of time to himself during breaks, it's only fair. Especially when the read-through hasn't been going that well.

It's becoming more and more clear to him that this third series is a mistake. They're repeating themselves. He'd told them that would happen, but nobody wanted to hear it. It's hard to remain interested under those conditions, and today he hadn't put much effort into it, to be honest. He'd been a bit lazy, probably, not concentrating the way he used to. He'd seen Jonesy scowling at him, but that was nothing new. He'd seen Eric checking his watch and Graham resting his chin in his hand, staring blankly out of the window while he and Michael wrestled with the same few lines over and over again. Michael, of course, had been nice about it.

And now, when he's annoyed, restless, ready to be distracted, Connie's not here.

Ah, well. All is not lost. Adopt, adapt, and improve, as they say. Make lemonade, necessity is the mother of invention, where there's a will there's a way, all that sort of thing. He smiles. And if you want something done right, do it yourself.

He mounts the stairs, picking the knot out of his tie as he goes. When he reaches the bedroom, he closes the door behind him and stands for a moment, considering. The shower? No. He'll shower afterward. Right now he wants a bit of a lie down. He wants to get comfortable, take his time, draw it out a bit. No need to waste water.

He undresses and lies down on the bed with a pleased sigh. He moves his hand down and touches his cock lightly. It's half hard, interested but not begging. Not yet. He runs his fingers over it, smiling. How good this is. How lovely, to have such pleasure, such delight, there for the taking. No one else to worry about, no one else's needs to consider. Selfish? Certainly. But it hurts no one, so why not?

He has a collection of fantasies he uses. Everybody does, he supposes. Things one never thinks of at any other time, private images one saves for just this purpose. He doesn't want them to come true, necessarily. He understands that fantasy often far surpasses reality in enjoyment. He'd actually be mortified if the opportunity ever arose to act out some of his pet scenarios. He probably wouldn't even be _able_ to.

So he sticks to the fantasy, where he's more than able.

He closes his eyes and thumbs mentally through the pictures. A woman, naked, standing over him, legs spread, pulling him toward her on his knees, forcing his mouth between her legs, holding his head there, cursing him, raining breathless obscenities on him while he licks her. Yes, that's a good one. He strokes his cock gently and runs his tongue over his lips.

A group of girls, a dozen of them, young, not yet out of school. They recognise him on the street. They giggle and simper and ask for his autograph, but they don't want it on paper. They descend on him like flies, dragging him off the street and into an alley. It's a dirty alley. It's filthy. They pull him down onto the paving stones. One shoves a pen into his hand. Another sits on his chest, straddling him, her prim public school skirt riding up her thighs. It's clear she's not wearing knickers. She strips off her jumper, revealing her bare breasts. She's -- what is the term? -- _overdeveloped_. She tells him to write his name on her tits. He does, and wishes his name were longer. Then she slides down him, unzips his trousers, and takes him in all the way. Another girl takes her place on his chest. She strips off her jumper, too.

Jesus. He's panting hard now. He squeezes his aching cock, dragging himself back from the edge. It's better, so much better, to go slow. But God, it's hard.

Michael.

That one slows him down. It always does, before it speeds him back up again. He's not gay, after all, and he always has to take a bit of time to remind himself of that fact. He feels himself wilting while he repeats it in his mind. He's not gay. Men don't do a thing for him, not really. It's a fantasy, nothing more.

Now he's under control again. His breathing has slowed, his erection has weakened. He can start fresh. He can go slow.

Michael. Kneeling in front of him, mouth stretched around his cock, looking up at him, the familiar green eyes glinting with silent laughter. Thinking about it, he feels his own mouth curving involuntarily. Even after years of schooling himself not to, it's very difficult for him not to break up when Michael looks at him with laughing eyes. It's meant many blown lines, many retakes, much hilarity.

He relaxes, closing his eyes, thinking about Michael's mouth on him. It would feel good, no question. It would be warm and soft and giving. Michael would do anything he asked. Not the real Michael. The real Michael would never consider doing such a thing with him, any more than John would ever consider asking him to. But the fantasy Michael is willing. In every other way, he's exactly like the real one. He's gentle, easygoing, good-natured to a fault. Nice.

He sighs, stroking himself slowly, lightly. He doesn't want nice. He mentally erases the picture and starts over.

Michael again. He's not so nice now, though. John's stepped on his lines again. John's miscued him. His timing's fucked up, and it's John's fault.

 _"Cleese," Michael murmurs, "I'm not telling you again. Get it right, or you'll wish you had."_

 _"I'm sorry," he whispers, quaking. "I'm trying, I'm really trying."_

 _Michael's breath hisses between his teeth. His eyes glitter. "Once more," he says._

 _But it's no good. He can't do it. He can't remember the line. It's not because Michael's making him laugh, not this time. It's because he's afraid. He's afraid of what Michael will do. He's afraid of what Michael will make_ him _do. He's afraid he'll like it._

Oh, God, this is a good one. He feels sweat break out afresh on his forehead.

 _They're alone, somewhere. No audience, no fellow Pythons. No one to prompt him, no one to help him but Michael, and Michael won't. He's had enough._

 _He's silent as John fumbles with his words. At last he gives up and looks down, shamed, into Michael's eyes. They're beautiful eyes, but they're hard and unforgiving. There's no mercy in them._

 _"I can't do it," he says hopelessly. "I'm sorry. I can't."_

 _Michael looks up at him, head tilted. He runs his tongue slowly over his lips. "Why?" he asks, very softly. "Why can't you?"_

 _"Because -- " He knows what Michael wants him to say, and he knows it's the truth. But it's so hard to say it. "Because -- I'm being lazy. I'm being naughty. I said I was trying, but I'm not really."_

 _Michael raises a hand and touches his face, so very gently. "So you could do it if you wanted to. You just don't care."_

 _He closes his eyes. "Yes, that's right."_

 _"It's my sketch, John," Michael whispers. His hand is so warm, so lovely, against John's cheek. "I wrote it, and you're spoiling it because you don't care."_

 _"Yes. Yes, I know." That's it. Admit everything. Tell him everything he wants to hear._

 _"And you're not even sorry, are you?"_

 _"No," he says, barely able to get the word out through the dread and excitement clouding his consciousness. "No, I'm not sorry."_

 _"But you will be." Michael runs a finger over his lips. John can't help putting out his tongue to taste it. Michael snatches it away._

 _"Yes, yes I will be. I will. After you've -- " He can't finish the sentence._

 _Michael smiles. "After I've punished you."_

Oh, God, too much. He forces himself to take his hand off his cock, and winces at the sickening cessation of movement. He lies panting, eyes screwed shut, for a long moment, letting himself slowly, slowly subside, before he touches it again.

 _"All right," Michael says softly. "Do exactly as I say. Don't do anything I don't tell you to do. If you do, I'll stop. And you don't want that, do you?"_

 _"No," he breathes. "I'll do anything you say."_

 _"Kneel down," Michael says._

Oh, yes. God, yes. This is the best one he's ever come up with.

 _He kneels. He's so much taller than Michael that even in this posture his head remains far above Michael's waist. He has to hunch down uncomfortably to bring it in line with where he knows it needs to be. It's humiliating, and he feels his face heat with shame and anticipation. He's looking directly at Michael's crotch now. He'd like to kiss him, mouth him, through the trousers. But Michael hasn't given him permission to do that._

 _"Now apologise," Michael whispers._

 _He hesitates, because the longer he waits, the better it is. Michael slaps him across the face._

His head jerks to one side on the pillow. He can actually feel it, the sting of that slap, and his heart bounds in his chest.

 _"I told you to apologise," says Michael. "I won't tell you again."_

 _He reaches out with trembling hands and undoes Michael's trouser button. He slides the zip down. Michael's not wearing anything beneath. His cock is sleepy, relaxed. He's in no hurry._

 _But John is. He leans forward and slides his mouth over the soft flesh, hungry for its taste, its feel. He's wanted it for so long, wanted it so much, he's dreamt about this for years, he can't stop himself..._

 _Michael pushes him off roughly and tilts his chin up with a finger. "Slow," he says. "As slow as you can."_

 _He's looking up into Michael's eyes. "Please," he says in a whisper. "Please, I want you -- "_

 _Michael smiles. "You don't understand. This is to show you what you'll never have. Now, go slowly."_

 _He feels pleasurable tears sting his eyes as he returns to his task. He wishes Michael would hit him again, to release some of the guilt he feels. But Michael does nothing. He has to do it all._

 _He kisses Michael's cock gently and lets his tongue rub lightly at the tip, trying to convey how very, very sorry he is. If only Michael could understand that and forgive him for bollixing up his sketch. But no, there's no forgiveness. Only more and more contrition, more and more atonement, more and more sucking Michael's cock._

Christ, he wants to do that. He's never touched a man sexually in his life, but God, he's so hard just thinking about Michael's cock in his mouth, Michael making him do it, Michael telling him how...

 _"Like that, yes. With your tongue, just behind -- yes, there, just there. God, that's so good..."_

He can't go slow, he can't. To hell with the careful scenario he's built up. He abandons it without a thought.

 _"Faster, dammit, faster!"_

Yes, faster, yes...

 _"All the way now, all the way in, harder, suck harder, yes, oh God..."_

Oh, God...

 _"Deeper -- swallow around me -- yes! Ahh..."_

Ahh...

He collapses, heart pounding, panting furiously, back onto the sheets. Jesus. _Jesus_.

He lies quietly, blinking slowly up at the ceiling, letting his pulse gradually slow, his muscles gradually relax. His wrist cramps painfully, and he winces, rubbing it with the other hand. He's sticky, and the bedclothes are sticky. Why hadn't he thought to use a handkerchief, at least? Stupid.

He sighs and gets up. He strips the bed and tosses the soiled sheets onto the floor. He'll wash them after he showers. He doesn't _have_ to wash them, of course. Connie wouldn't make him do it. Connie's strong and spirited, but she never _makes_ him do anything. No one does.

He's on his way to the bathroom when the bedside phone rings. He rolls his eyes and goes back to snatch it up. He's beginning to itch, and he's eager to get on with his shower.

"Hello," he says, not bothering to disguise his irritation.

"Hello, John, it's Michael."

As if he wouldn't recognise the voice. He replies evenly, in measured tones. "Michael. How are you?" Silly, of course, since he'd seen him less than an hour ago.

"Fine, thanks. Look, ah, John, I just thought I'd ring you to apologise for this afternoon."

He blinks. "Apologise for what?"

Michael laughs. "Well, I got a bit sharp with you once or twice, whilst we were working on the Thripshaw sketch. I shouldn't have done. Everyone's allowed an off day now and then."

John's brows draw together in confusion. "What do you mean? You didn't get _sharp_ with me. You were the only one who didn't." As always, he thinks.

"Oh, I did. You did seem a bit distracted, though. Perhaps you didn't notice."

Or perhaps, he thinks, your idea of _sharp_ is so far from everyone else's that it scarcely deserves the definition.

"Michael, you did nothing wrong. It was my fault. I was -- distracted, as you said." He closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable denial.

"No, no, really, I could have helped you more than I did, and I just wanted to let you know there are no hard feelings. I know you'll have it down perfectly when we go to record it. You always do, don't you?"

John presses his lips together impatiently. "Yes. But it _was_ my fault. You have every right to an apology." He hesitates. "You've every right to _demand_ one."

Michael laughs. "Oh, nonsense. No harm done. I'll see you next week at Graham's. We can run through it again then, all right?"

John sighs. "Yes, all right."

"And no hard feelings."

"No. No, of course not."

They ring off. He makes his way to the lavatory and steps into the shower. He turns the water on so hot it steals his breath away and stands under the blistering, needle-sharp spray until his skin turns as red as if he's been whipped and he can think of nothing but the pain. Then he gets out, towels off, and waits for Connie to come home.


End file.
